


Wild Gravity

by carlyraejepsen



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blowjobs, Comedy, Excessive Swearing, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Attraction, Personal Hygiene, Sexual Frustration, awkward family meals, brief mention of Top Gun, excessive references to masturbation, guys being dudes, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-20 02:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9471533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carlyraejepsen/pseuds/carlyraejepsen
Summary: Keith is a good friend, and Lance has a problem, so he helps him out. That's what friends are for.





	1. Wild Gravity

Keith doesn't mind when Lance barges into his room anymore. He used to get pretty pissed off at his little visits, as he never knocks and always announces something stupid at the top of his lungs when the door slides open ( _“Honey, I’m home!” “Howdily doodily, Keitherino!” “Dude, I just absolutely owned Hunk, he’s so pissed off, you gotta hide me in here!”_ ). It would get on his nerves, and they would bicker, and then Keith would end up physically forcing Lance out the door. Altogether, it used to be a huge waste of the little free time they’re allotted.

As they grew closer, though, he started to let him stay. Lance only wanted someone to talk with, after all, and as they grew closer to one another, the visits became more routine. Lance would pop over an hour or so before the set curfew, and they’d just hang out for a while like normal kids. Sometimes they’d sit and talk about stupid things that they can't really talk about with other people; Lance would tell stories about back at the Garrison, about crazy shit that him and Hunk pulled, about the girls he’d kissed and the girls he wished he’d kissed. Keith would vent his frustrations on how Shiro had patronized him on that particular day, about how bad dinner was and how he can't get the taste out of his mouth. Sometimes they’d make up word games to play, and they’d both get way too competitive and end up wrestling and trying to pin each other like idiots. And sometimes they’d just hang upside-down by their knees off the side of Keith’s bed and stay there in peace and quiet, or Lance would hum one of his favorite songs, and that was enough.

The visits helped drive away some of the loneliness that Keith felt. That odd sense of isolation that came to him at night, even after a long day surrounded by the crew. It honestly helped to have some obnoxious positivity socked into him before he went to sleep.

There’s no announcement this time. Keith’s sitting against the wall opposite his bed and polishing the blade of his knife with a ratty old t-shirt when the door slides open and Lance charges in. His hair’s all wet, and he’s in a pair of gray sweats and a loose shirt for that band he won't shut up about, and he simply turns and throws himself onto Keith’s bed without a word, groaning pathetically into the pillow.

“Um. Hey,” Keith says.

“Your bed smells like ass,” replies Lance, muffled by fabric.

“Hm.” He stands up and stretches, tucks the knife and the shirt into a groove in the odd shelves. “Sorry I don't take three showers a day. Like _some_ people.”

“You could at least wear deodorant,” Lance glares at him. “Y’know, be considerate of the people who have to be around you all day?”

“I do wear deodorant. Just not while I sleep. Not everyone has to smell like daisies and cupcakes all the time, alright?”

“Yes, they do,” Lance insists, grabbing the pillow and hugging it to his chest when he sits up against the head of the bed. “C’mon! It’s common courtesy! Would it really kill you to take the extra shower now and then? Would it hurt to dab on a little perfu—” He bites his tongue— “Cologne?”

“... Lance, do you wear women’s perfume?”

“Okay, _one_ ,” he holds up a finger, and Keith sees that black brace on his wrist and winces again. Shiro told everyone at dinner a couple weeks back that Lance had gotten his wrist caught in machinery while attempting to perform maintenance on his lion, and judging by how moody and irritable Lance has been acting lately, the injury must be killing him. Keith genuinely feels sorry for the guy. “If I close my eyes, I can pretend a girl’s been in my bed ‘cause it smells so damn nice, and _two_ ,” a second finger, “I smell like fuckin’ moonlit jasmine and dew-kissed rose all the time.” He shrugs. “So I feel like I’m the winner in this situation.”

“Touché,” says Keith, taking off his jacket and hanging it up. He hadn’t realized how late it was, but if Lance is over, curfew could be in a matter of minutes. “Why are you so pissy today?”

“‘Cause I’m _hideous_ ,” Lance says, voice low with self-pity.

“Ah, I see.” Keith walks back over, sits down on the side of the bed and points at Lance’s face, recognizing no difference in his appearance whatsoever. “It’s the chin, right? You finally noticed?”

“No,” he cocks his head. “Noticed what?”

Keith opens his mouth, then closes it and sighs through his nose. “I shouldn't tell you.”

“Keith. Noticed _what_?” No answer. “Keithard Evelyn Kogane, what in the _hell_ is wrong with my chin?”

Shit, does Keith love messing with him. He can't help himself from grinning. “That’s not my name.”

“I don't give a damn what your name is, Speed Racer, what about my chin?”

“It’s pointy,” he says, poking just below Lance’s lip. “Like, the very tip of it. You could take somebody’s eye out.”

“Oh, that’s rich. This coming from the guy who is literally a hundred percent acute angles— Keith, you’re so goddamn bony that it hurts to look at you— Keith, cuddling with you would be like sleeping with a pile of fucking remotes.”

“Wow. How long have you been waiting to use that one?”

“Pidge gave me the idea last Sunday. How genius is that? That kid comes up with the most clever roasts, swear to God.” Lance snickers, “Pile of remotes…”

“Why do _you_ think you’re hideous, Lance?”

“Boy, am I glad you asked.” Lance turns a little, points to a pimple on the side of his cheek, just below his eye. “I skip my routine for one night, and _bam_. I’m a revolting monster.”

“... Are you serious?” There is literally one single zit on his face, one zit surrounded by flawless copper skin. Not that Keith pays attention to things like that.

“Yeah, I’m serious. What am I without my perfect, glowing complexion?”

“I don't know, maybe one of the guardians of the universe?”

“This isn’t the time for games, Keith. How am I gonna get a sweet alien girlfriend looking like _this_?”

Keith shakes his head. “It’s a whitehead, man, just pop it.”

“Just— just p—” Lance slaps a hand over his forehead— “Yeah, that’s a great idea! I want a bigass, permanent red scar on my face for my whole life! Honestly! Why didn't I think of that myself?”

“If I was some alien chick, I’d rather look at red than white. White grosses me out.”

“Yeah?” Lance’s bitter expression melts into a familiar grin for a second. “Must be hard to look in the mirror, then.”

“Wh… I’m Afghani, you dipshit.”

“Hey, I’m not judging for what you do in your spare time.” He lays a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Love is love, my man.”

“You’re so stupid,” he says, but he’s already laughing, and Lance’s eyes go all wide. No one on the team is really used to Keith having a sense of humor yet, and he doesn't even blame them. Not after how aloof he’d acted in the first stretch.

Lance laughs, too. Then he sighs and lays back down a little, wrapping his arm around the pillow once more. “To be honest, I’m probably only breaking out ‘cause I’m stressed.”

“Okay.”

He sticks his long legs out in front of himself, nudging Keith expectantly with a socked foot. “... Aren't you gonna ask over what?”

Lance must want him to play therapist tonight. “Okay. Over what?”

“I’m literally horny every second of every day.”

So he just wants to talk about this again. “Got it.”

“God,” Lance says, squeezing the pillow, “I just really love girls, y’know? I think— I think looking at the same girl for this long is driving me sort of insane. I’ve planned out me and Allura’s wedding six times. _Six_ different times,” he emphasizes, straining his voice, “the catering, the flower arrangements, the fucking color palettes… _Fuck_!”

“Yup. Sounds rough.”

“I mean, Keith, you’re gay, right?”

“Yu— wait. What?”

Lance freezes, quickly combs his wet hair out of his face with his fingers. “Oh, oh jeez, I didn't mean to _assume_ , I just thought, y’know, with the mullet and everything?”

“Well, like.” He doesn't even know where to begin. “I’m not straight, but it’s not because I… have a mullet.”

“That’s fair, that’s fair,” he holds his hands out, “Plenty of straight dudes have mullets. Uncle Jesse from Full House? Straightest 90’s icon I can think of.”

Keith huffs, shuffling back until he’s against the wall on the bed. “I mean, at this point, I think I like both. That’s where I’m at.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what _I’m_ thinking! We’re on the same page! I’m getting into dudes, and it’s honestly kind of crazy.”

He coughs a laugh. “What?”

“I said I think I like both, too. Like I’m on Tier Two of sexual frustration,” he raises a hand to imitate a level, “I’ve kinda surpassed heterosexuality at this point. Girls are so good, and guys are so… _good_. It's different. Have you seen Hunk?”

“From time to time.” It’s not like they all live together or anything.

“He’s so… _broad_. His chest and his shoulders and everything. Fuck. Unrelated, but you know what I love? Long hair. On anyone. Nice, fluffy, clean hair. Like you could drag your fingers through it and it’d be really soft and it’d smell nice.” There’s a pause. “Christ. I just got a hard-on thinking about _hair_.”

“That’s… that’s really rough,” Keith mutters, finding that his mouth is dry thinking about Hunk and thinking about nice hair and absentmindedly trying to glance down even though Lance has that damn pillow between his legs. An ugly part of him feels jealous that Lance mentioned Hunk instead of _him_.

“I feel like if I don't get laid, I’m gonna get up to, like, Tier Three… and I’m gonna be into _all_ genders… and I’m gonna wanna fuck _Pidge_.” He brings his hand down and squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ, I don't _wanna_ wanna fuck Pidge. Oh my God.”

“Have you tried… ” Keith strains to a whisper, “Have you tried, like… y’know, like, jerking off?”

Lance’s jaw drops. “Are you— are you actually. Keithryn Elizabeth Kogane. Are you seriously asking if I jerk off?”

“Again, that’s, that’s not my name—”

He says it loudly, as if he’s offended. “You’re asking _me_? If I jerk off?”

“Holy shit, be quiet—”

“No, I won’t be quiet! Keith, you actually thought that I don't jerk off already!”

“Look— look, sorry I haven't visually pictured you touching yourself, alright?” Keith can feel his face reddening. Can people really talk about this kind of thing so freely?

“Apology accepted.” Lance starts to snicker wildly after that, pulling up his left sleeve, keeping the pillow in place with his elbows. “Keith, I wanna tell you something, but you can't tell anybody, alright?”

“Uh, okay?”

“Okay. Remember how Shiro said that I hurt my wrist trying to fix Blue?”

“Yeah?”

“Well,” He announces, “I didn’t.”

Keith looks at the brace, then squints at Lance, trying to understand just what the hell is being implied. “... You jerked off so hard that you broke your wrist?”

“ _No_ , dumbass!” He shakes his head, then hesitates. Then, with a chuckle: “I jerked off so much that I got carpal tunnel syndrome.”

And that’s when Keith dies laughing. Keith fucking _loses_ it, he leans his head back with that airy kind of laugh where no sound comes out— then he starts cackling, just at the thought of it, just at how _eager_ Lance was to tell that to him—

“Dude,” Lance laughs, but Keith doesn't stop— Keith twists to face the smooth wall, bangs his fist on it hysterically, presses his hot forehead against it.

“Keep it down! I’m trying to work,” shouts Pidge from the other side of the wall.

“Pidge!” Keith barely manages, trying to compose himself enough to speak.

“What?”

“Lance just— Lance just told me that—”

“Aw, fucking _Christ_ , Keith,” Lance pleads.

“Lance got carpal tunnel from jerking off too much,” he says, almost gasping for breath.

“Holy _shit_!” Says Pidge, and he hears a clatter of metal and a screeching laugh, “Oh my god, Lance! The Jerk-Off King!”

“ _Lance the Jerk-Off King_!” Keith almost screams, collapsing in between Lance’s knees on the bed. He hasn't laughed this hard in ages.

“What a fake friend. These hoes truly ain't loyal.” Lance doesn't even seem angry; Keith looks up and he’s still laughing, if only somewhat embarrassed. “You done yet?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, wiping the tears that’d started to brim in his eyes. “Yeah, I’m. I’m done.”

“Good.” Lance looks down at his brace, holds it out and inspects it begrudgingly. “I haven't gotten off in three weeks and four days thanks to this sonofabitch.”

“You’re counting the days— Lance.”

“You’d be counting the days too if you hadn't gotten off in three weeks and four days!”

“Why don't you… just.. use the other hand?”

“Oh, Shiro banned me from jacking it altogether. He’s afraid it’ll keep me from being able to pilot.”

“ _Lance_ ,” He cackles. He can't help his incredulous tone— he can't believe Lance did that, nonetheless is willing to have a _conversation_ about it. Lance is so fucking stupid. 

“I mean, of _course_ I tried it anyways, but I honestly couldn't finish. It wasn't the same as good ol’ Lefty— she’s done me good for, like, six years now. And not having any porn on this hell-castle doesn't help either, not with all the parental locks Coran put on the internet. My one chance to check out _alien nudes_ and I can't even get to the damn server.” Lance’s hand ghosts over his zit, then clenches into a fist and sinks to his chest. As if _that’s_ what he’s most ashamed of. He seems genuinely upset over such a tiny blemish, and Keith is almost empathetic.

Out of the blue, Keith is struck with an awful thought about how to help Lance feel better. He attempts to push it away, but ends up thinking about it again. Holy fuck, this might be the dumbest idea he’s ever had.

“... Hey, Lance?”

“Yeah?”

“How about— how about I help you out here?”

“Help me out how?”

Keith clears his throat and looks him dead in the eye when he says it, trying his best to feign confidence. “How about I get you off?”

Lance’s eyes go wide, and he bunches up further back against the headboard— headwall?— whatever. “U-uh,” he chuckles, hugging the pillow tighter, clawing into it with his fingertips.

“I mean, it’s, uh, affecting your whole mood,” Keith explains, quickly trying to back up his ludicrous argument before he comes to his senses, “Obviously you aren't functioning as well in this state, and, it would benefit the entirety of the team if you weren’t so stressed, and then breaking out, and then stressing _over_ breaking out. That’s what I think, anyways.”

“So… lemme get this straight.” His arms relax a little. “On behalf of Team Voltron… you want to give me a handjob.”

He feels like the universe’s biggest idiot. “... Sure.”

“ _Sold_ ,” Lance says, tossing the pillow off the side of the bed with a shrug. “Get over here.”

“Wait— you’re serious? Just like that?” Keith has to pretend like he’s not staring, but he is, and Lance wasn't fucking kidding. He can see the outline of his hard cock through his sweatpants, and Keith’s pulse jump-starts and he feels lightheaded, feels much more not-straight than usual.

“Yeah! You offered. Why would I say no?”

Keith is bewildered. “‘Cause— ‘cause it’s _weird_!”

“There’s nothing weird about a bro helping his bro out, though. You’re honestly just being a really good friend.”

“You’re suspiciously nonchalant about this, you know.” He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to focus. “Are you already doing this with somebody?”

“Personally, this is my first platonic handjob arrangement. It isn't uncommon, though. You literally _offered_ , Keith,” he repeats, laughing, “I dunno why you're the one freaking out here. God, your face is red right now. Are you sure you want to?”

“Yeah,” he inhales, exhales slowly. “Yeah, sorry.” He starts to take off his gloves, and Lance chuckles low again, and Keith feels self-conscious as hell. When he realizes he’s worried about looking stupid in front of _Lance_ — the most embarrassing fuck known to civilization— he starts to have second thoughts. “Hey, close your eyes,” he commands. That’ll solve it.

“Why?”

“Don't wanna make it weirder than it already is.”

Lance closes his eyes with a smirk, hands at his sides. “It’s not weird.”

“It’s pretty fucking weird.” Keith moves closer, close enough to touch, far enough to keep his dignity basically intact. He isn't even sure if he wants to look, keeping his eyes on Lance’s face as he places a hand on his knee, drags it up his thigh all awkward. He doesn't know what he’s doing and doesn't intend on acting like it.

He doesn't say it out loud because the joke is too obvious, but Keith has to hand it to him: Lance truly does have a pretty face. His skin looks soft and tan and smooth, and other than that one zit, it’s clear as crystal. “You have nice eyelashes,” Keith says, finds that he’s whispering again without even trying. It’s true, they’re long and black and it almost looks like he’s wearing mascara when he shuts his eyes tight like that. He takes the front of his sweats in his hand, self-consciously licks his other palm, trying to remain composed.

“Aw, thank you— _oh_ ,” He’s cut off when Keith wraps a hand around his cock, hot and hard and thick in his palm, he cannot believe he’s doing this. “oh, oh god, we’re really getting right into it, huh? God.”

“Might as well,” he breathes, starts to stroke him like he does to himself. He’ll be gentle at first, and then he’ll work up to it. “How’s that?”

“Good,” Lance sighs, “Wow, fuckin’ good, I missed this. You have really great hands, your hands are, holy _fuck_ they’re nice,” he can feel his breath on him, thin brows drawing together— Keith feels his stomach twist, and he convinces himself that it’s out of fear that someone’ll hear them when Lance blabbers like that.

“Still gonna run your mouth? Even when I’m doing this?” Lance is extremely receptive to touch, which isn't making this any easier on him; he gets into a steady rhythm, stroking efficiently with a purpose, just needs to get the job done.

“ _Always_ gotta run my mouth with you, Keith. You make it irresistible. _Love_ messing with you.”

The way “love” rolls off his tongue makes Keith want to die a little bit. He finds himself zeroing in on all these little things about his reactions, the way his legs twitch, the way his face flushes dark. The way his cock throbs in his hand.

“Me too,” Keith mumbles, moves in closer when his voice fails him, he can smell his sweet floral perfume and it’s almost like torture. “I-I like working you up. I like the way we’re friends now.”

“Look at us… From rivals to besties.”

“We were never rivals.”

Lance laughs a little, lets his head fall back, Keith can see his adam’s apple bob in his throat when he swallows. “You work me up even when you're not around, you know that?

“How?”

His brow furrows, but he keeps his eyes closed. “Like— like back when I was _able_ — I’d have my dick in my hand, n’ I’d be thinking about, about light blue hair, y’know?” He sighs. “Like cotton candy. Soft and silky when I twist my fingers in it and— and then I would just get _black_ hair stuck in my mind,” he chuckles, shrugging, “Out of nowhere. Shoulder-length and wavy. Business in the front, party in the back, ya feel me?”

“Yeah,” he forces a laugh, feels blood rush to his cheeks with ferocity.

“Maybe I’d start thinking about pale skin after. Then maybe— mm, maybe the way your arms look when you train. Wearing that stupid fuckin' tight black shirt. God _damn_ , Keith. Then maybe I’d just think about your mouth on my dick ‘till I’d finish,” he adds casually. “Always felt so good when I did, every time I thought of you, and it was never even on _purpose_. You’d just go n’ find a way into my thoughts.”

“... Oh,” Keith replies hoarsely. He tightens his grip, twists his wrist a bit when he strokes up each time, spreads Lance’s precum over the tip with his thumb to lessen the friction and tries to not think about what in the hell he’s doing.

“A-and I always feel like a creep after, ‘cause you're my _friend_ and it _is_ a little weird, but, you’re, oh god _there_ yes there, uh, you’re a real pretty guy. You’re so handsome that it made me totally fuckin' hate you at first,” he licks his lips, short of breath, “You made me realize I liked guys.”

“Lance, _you’re_ handsome,” he almost tries to rebut like they're arguing or something, feels around on the hard mattress with his other hand until he finds Lance’s, grabbing it quickly. He finds his legs locked around one of Lance’s, grinding against it in time with his pace. His cock aches against his jeans. “I know you already know it, but you always look so good, I like how you take care of yourself, wish you didn't beat yourself up over your skin, you have such nice skin, you smell like heaven, you make me want to go to _spas_ and shit you look so nice, make me wanna do face masks and dye my hair—”

“Keith, I’m _legit_ afraid of you cleaning up like that,” Lance pants, “You’d be so, I mean, you’re a depressed greasy bastard who never showers and you’re _still_ hot— you're so pretty when you laugh, dear god— if you started actually caring about how you look, Christ, I can't even _imagine_ how gorgeous—”

“You’re so _stupid_ ,” he says again, and Lance laughs, runs his hand up his arm while his braced hand stays clenched at his side— lets his hand rest at his shoulder, pull him in until they're almost face to face— lets it sit on the back of Keith’s neck— lets it run up through his hair the wrong way, messing it up and raking his fingers against his scalp. His breath feels hot, smells like peppermint. Everything else smells like flowers, bouquets, meadows.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my _god_ , Keith,” Lance moans, too loud, way too loud. He doesn't say anything, he just keeps pumping him in his fist, just tries to get faster and faster and ignore the slick sound bouncing off the flat walls and the resounding drum of his pulse in his ears.

“Oh Christ, oh my god, Jesus fucking Christ, so good, holy sh— _Keith_!” Lance gets a handful of his hair and pulls on it, and Keith has to pretend like it didn't hurt and it didn't turn him on at all, both of which are lies. He watches a bead of sweat roll down Lance’s forehead, eyes still shut tight, keeping his promise. “Keith, oh god, oh Keith,” his voice is weak, he looks so vulnerable, “Sometimes I wish— I wish we were just— uhn— two normal guys who weren't fuckin’ pilots or Paladins or whatever, just two normal friends— so we could be— _more_ than friends or something I dunno I dunno—”

“ _Lance_ —”

He sees Lance’s lips part, sees him clasp a hand over his mouth, sees his torso curl up and his legs draw close, but his drowsy mind doesn't put it together until he feels him coming into his palm, wet and sticky and cooling fast, thick and white between his fingers, so _much_ of it. And it seems to last an eternity, doesn't end until Lance breathes his name again and collapses limply onto the mattress, arms out and unfurled.

“Holy fuck, holy _fuck_ , I can see color again,” He heaves, blinking rapidly, eyes wide up at the canopy. “I can see, I— I think I see God right now.”

“Uh-huh,” Keith says, buzzing, feeling different. He stands up shakily, stumbles to the shelves, picks up that ratty t-shirt from around his knife on the shelf and wipes his hands off with it. “Feel better?”

“Oh, shit, _so_ much better, Keith, you're a god damn life saver, I feel so… oh my god…”

Keith comes back to the bed as he's fixing his waistband and gets on top of him— no room to do anything else on this tiny-ass twin mattress— and kisses him before he can say anything. Just needed to do it once. It’s warm and sort of messy, and their teeth clack together, but he doesn't fully regret it when he pulls back and Lance can finally look at him.

“... Was that bad?” Keith asks, voice soft.

“I’ve had worse,” He replies, beaming.

There’s a quiet little moment after that. Keith lays his head on Lance’s chest and listens to his heartbeat gradually slowing, feels his hand brush through his hair gently, again and again as if to apologize for pulling.

“Afghani is an ethnicity,” Keith breaks the silence.

“Huh?”

“It’s not an orientation or anything. It means my dad's from Afghanistan.”

“... Oh. I’m really sorry.”

He snorts. “It’s okay—”

“No, I’m really sorry I didn't know what it was.” he puts a hand on his shoulder, and Keith’s body locks up. “People assume all sorts of stuff about where I’m from back on Earth, so I know how shitty that kind of thing feels.”

Lance is being sincere. It feels sort of bizarre. “Um. Really?”

“Yeah. I always tell them the same thing, though.”

“What?” He rests his chin on Lance’s chest to look up at him.

“Half Cuban, half Vietnamese, a hundred percent stud.” He winks.

Right as Keith is about to call him an idiot again, the lights go out. The room is pitch black for a moment, and then soft blue-green lights bloom on the walls.

“Oh, fucking great,” Lance groans. “That’s curfew. _Shit_. Coran’s gonna have my ass on a plate.” Keith moves so that Lance can get out from underneath him, and he leaves a slight kiss on Keith’s cheek when he sits up. “Thank you? For everything. You’re a real good friend, Kit Keithridge.”

“I know.” He hears hesitant footsteps as Lance leaves, sees a flash of light when the door beeps and slides open. “Don’t tell anybody, okay?”

“Okay. Shhh.” His silhouette places a finger in front of his lips, and then the door shuts.

Keith pats around on the floor until he finds his pillow, props it back up on his bed. Curls up underneath his blanket, still feeling strange. He rubs his cheek where he'd kissed him. Everything smells like jasmine and rose when he closes his eyes.

Then, there’s a thump on the wall right next to him. “Dude. Did you just jerk off the Jerk-Off King?”

“Pidge, you can actually fuck off to hell.”

“Got it. Sweet dreams, edgelord.”

“Shut up,” he says, laughs anyways. 


	2. Take My Breath Away

Everybody at the breakfast table knows. Pidge already knows because their bunk is right next to Keith’s, and incriminating things like a ten-thousand-year-old mattress creaking and moans of “ _oh god Keith_ ” aren't cancelled out by the walls here, apparently. The mice heard Pidge laughing to themself about it, and the mice told Allura, and Allura told Coran for some demented reason, and now everyone’s waiting for Hunk to get back from the kitchen with a special new dish he wanted to try out, and the only one eating the appetizer is Shiro.

Correction: everybody at the breakfast table knows except Shiro.

So far, this might be the most uncomfortable meal that Lance has ever eaten. Even worse than that one Thanksgiving dinner where he got high and had to act normal around his entire extended family. He’s sitting next to Keith, and Keith’s next to Pidge, and they won't stop whispering to one another.

And Keith looks moody as all hell. Keith’s just drinking a glass of water and fixing his hair back as he talks to Pidge and glancing at Lance as if he’s blind. Lance has been feeling really, _really_ weird about Keith since last night. He’d thought that his crush was finally dying down, that he could just think of it as physical attraction and nothing else after this, but. The way Keith _kissed_ him afterwards, so eager and sincere. Christ, it feels like he’s angrily pining over him at school all over again.

Then there’s Pidge on the other side of Keith, typing away at their laptop instead of eating, and they keep fiddling with this metal band plugged into it with an endless roll of stifled laughs and hisses. Keith glances over at the laptop screen, simply shakes his head and laughs. Lance can’t see it from here.

Allura doesn't even have a plate, she’s just standing at Shiro’s side with a hand on his shoulder, looking over the table with deep concern in her eyes. Lance can't help but wonder what she thinks of the whole thing, but his train of thought is interrupted once Shiro clears his throat.

“Alright, what’s going on?” says Shiro, and Pidge and Keith are silent. “Do you think that I can't tell when something's up with you guys?”

It’s almost entirely quiet. Pidge types slightly slower.

“I’m already disappointed enough that one of you was out after lights-out last night, but we all know that a functional team can _not_ keep secrets from one another. Honestly, I thought you were all more mature than this. Someone needs to tell me what’s going on right now.” He takes a bite of his appetizer, a green gelatinous mixture as usual.

“... Keith gave me a handjob last night,” Lance states outright. He feels Keith wince so hard next to him that his chair nearly tips, and Pidge lets out this weak squeal of a noise, signalling that they are about to lose their shit laughing.

Shiro immediately chokes, spits out what he was chewing. He keeps a straight face and quickly swallows, puts down his fork and raises a finger at Lance. “Don't you— don't you _ever_ say something like that to me again.”

Lance scoffs, holds his hand out. “You _just_ told me to tell you. You’re sending out mixed messages here.”

“Do you think I wanted to hear that first thing in the morning?” Shiro’s voice is dead serious, and Allura’s just shaking her head scornfully. On the other side of the table, Coran twists his moustache and looks the other way. “Lance, I don't want you using that language here, and I don't want you saying things like that.”

“Okay? Um, me and Keith… fornicated. Yester evening. Is that better?”

“No,” Shiro says, looks at him as if he’s stupid. This is a thousand times worse than Thanksgiving. “Lance, I understand. You’re at that age, you’re _obviously_ frustrated, you’ve got a lot of unreleased tension,” he gestures to the brace, and Lance is legitimately offended, “but you can't just make up rumors like that. It’s that kind of fake gossip that tears teams apart.”

“You don't believe me? Are you— are you calling me a _liar_?”

“I’m not calling you anything. I only want you to leave Keith out of whatever you’re going through.”

“It happened, though. Last night.” He nudges Keith on the shoulder, “C’mon, dude, back me up.”

“Shut up,” says Keith, keeping his head low. “Lance, shut up. Just shut up.”

“Holy _shit_.” He gestures to Keith and announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a fake-ass friend over here.”

“ _Language_ , Lance!” Says Shiro, and Coran and Allura are _immensely_ uncomfortable and Pidge is snickering so hard that it sounds like they're dying.

“Hey, guys, breakfast is ready! Bon apple tea, or whatever!” Hunk walks in carrying several plates of delicate-looking foods, stacks of spiced plants and pastes—

“Look, it happened!” He stands and lists off on his fingers, “It was right before lights-out, Keith jerked me off platonically, it lasted around six minutes, he has sort of rough hands so it was nice— oh, good morning, Hunk,” he greets him, anger fading for a moment.

Hunk looks thoroughly distraught, eyes wide, standing dead still. “... What in the heck did I walk in on?”

“Oh, not much,” Lance replies. “What did you make?”

“Uh.” He slowly walks over, sets the plates on the table. “I used some, uh… no, really, you guys, what just happened?”

“The worst breakfast in history,” Keith mutters.

“Come on, Keith, knock it off.” Shiro massages his temples. “Let’s just... change the subject. Lance, sit down.”

Lance shrugs, complies, pulls a plate over. There’s no use arguing with Shiro at some point. And whatever these pink leaves on top are, they make the whole dish smell great.

“So, Pidge, what are you working on?” Shiro asks, continuing to eat.

“Oh,” Pidge leans in, red in the face from holding in laughter. “It’s a crown for Lance.” They unplug the silver band from their laptop.

“For _me_?” Lance says excitedly.

“Yeah. Lemme show you.” They hold it up, and there’s a black stone cut in a triangle on the front, almost like Allura’s crown. They touch the stone, and it glows blue— then a hologram projects out of it with a realistic puff of blue confetti, along with the words “ _JERK-OFF KING_ ” emblazoned in a grand font.

Shiro stares at it for a moment. He then looks up at Allura in a moment of understanding, taking her hand and squeezing it in his. “I crave death,” he calmly tells her.

 

* * *

 

 

They manage to pretend that breakfast never happened altogether. Allura tells them about a distress beacon she picked up off of a small moon nearby, and they all suit up and check it out. They stick together, meet the local civilization, get ambushed by Galra troops, from Voltron and kick the hell out of them. Then, they go home having learned more about their abilities, each other, and themselves. A pretty standard mission. Dinner is quiet and uneventful, as if to compensate.

Keith kind of wants to talk things over with Lance— he should be angry with him, but he simply isn't. He feels strange about the entire situation, and having everyone else throw him weird looks whenever he passes doesn't help.

He’s waited for Lance to get out of the shower for about five minutes now, just sitting on the edge of the sink and swinging his legs, looking around absentmindedly. For all of the castle’s oddities, the paladins’ designated bathroom is pretty standard; there’s a long mirror with five sinks, five toilet stalls parallel. The shower is right around the corner, a big communal room with multiple faucets and showerheads, but everyone has their own objections to using it at the same time, so they simply take turns.

In all honesty, Keith is pretty worried. He isn’t sure if Lance will want to come over tonight or not, so he reasons that it’ll be better to be direct and corner him. This’ll be an alright place to talk, all things considered— it’s early enough in the evening that the bathroom isn’t busy, and the expensive shampoos and soaps that Lance uses has cloaked the hall in steam that fogs the mirror, sweet and fruity in the air. It’s quiet except for water running and Lance’s singing voice against tile. He always sings pop songs in the shower.

Then, the water shuts off. “ _I’m just goin’ to the store, to the store.. I’m just goin’ to the store_ ,” Lance’s voice echoes as he sings enthusiastically, and Keith has to cover his mouth to keep from laughing.

“ _You might not see me anymore, anymore.. I’m just goin’ to the sto—_ ” Lance walks jauntily out from the end of the hall with a towel around his waist, dripping wet, and the second he sees Keith, he freezes and lets out this hilarious high-pitched yell, scrambles back behind the corner in a split moment. “Jesus _fuck_!”

“Sorry,” Keith laughs, not sorry in the slightest. “You alright?”

“I’m fine, you spooky bastard. Scared the living _shit_ outta me.” He hears shuffling, footsteps in puddles. “You waiting for the shower?”

“No, just you.”

“... Me?”

“Yeah. I wanted to talk to you, I don't know.”

“Umm. Lemme just put on pants.” More shuffling, water draining. “Oh, hey, I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?”

“For this morning.” He comes out again in nothing but his blue pajama pants with the rings on the hem, drying his hair with his towel. Of course, the wrist brace is still on. The rest of his clothes are tucked under his arm. “I know you told me not to tell anybody, but I just kinda flipped out back there. I feel pretty guilty about embarrassing you in front of all the guys— and Allura, _Christ_ — I-I’m really sorry.” He lays the clothes and the towel down next to his sink, holds out his hand to Keith. “We good?”

Keith swallows. His hair looks cute when it’s wet and tousled like that, and he doesn't know why he’s looking at his chest and his arms like he’s never seen anything before, he’s already _seen_ all of him, why is he only so appealing _now_? “Yeah, yeah, we’re good,” he takes his hand, warm and clean, and Lance holds firmly and shakes with a grin.

“Glad to hear it.” Lance hesitates before he lets go, bends over his sink, fiddles with the weird Altean faucets to try to get a good temperature. He hums the “ _I’m Going To The Store_ ” song or whatever from earlier, picks up one of the many tubes of product around his area— it’s funny to see how few cosmetics everyone else has compared to Lance. He’s got bright-colored creams and salves and scrubs and spray bottles piled high against the mirror, and Keith has no idea what half of them are even for. On the other side, Shiro simply has an eyeliner pencil, a toothbrush, a stick of Old Spice, and a bottle of cologne. And Pidge has one bar of soap and nothing else.

“... How come you have so much stuff?”

“What?” Lance squeezes some clear gel onto his palm, rubs it in circles along his cheeks until it turns sudsy.

“All these face creams. Do you really need all of these?”

He has to think for a moment, swiping the foam under his eyes and on his forehead. “I guess not. I’d still look good without ‘em. If I stop now, though, I’ll break the hell out. Can't skip the routine.”

“But why’d you start in the first place? You’ve got great skin— did you have, like, acne before, or…?”

“Nah, I’ve always had nice skin. I guess it started ‘cause…” He cups his hands in the running water, splashes it into his face until it’s rinsed off. Then he starts again with another solvent, one that looks like a mixture of sugar and oil. “‘Cause of my sisters. I was the guinea pig for all the new crap they’d buy. Daicy’d be like— Daicy is my oldest sister,” he clarifies— “This was when I was really little, before she moved out. She’d be all, ‘hey, does paraffin sting when you put it on?’ And I’d be like, ‘what?’ And then she’d just give me a full-on facial with it, the cucumbers over my eyes and everything.” He rinses again, laughing to himself. “Sometimes, it would sting really bad. But then she’d take it off, and she’d pinch my cheeks and tell me that it’d made me even _more_ handsome, just to make me feel better. Sure did wonders to my ego.”

“Aw,” Keith chuckles. He still isn't used to this new, vulnerable Lance he’s been seeing lately.

“And with makeup, too. Like, Reina would try out _everything_ she got at the corner store on me. There was this one morning in middle school where she wanted to see how this bright purple lipstick would look, so of course _I_ had to put it on—”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I’m not gonna say no to _Reina_ , she would've totally kicked my ass,” he laughs like it’s obvious. “Anyways, I put it on, and then it wouldn't come off, even with Vaseline and makeup remover and shit, and we were already running late, so I just went to school like that.” He rinses off the sugar paste, turns off the faucet. “It was hilarious. Kids in my P.E. class were laughing about it for _weeks_.”

“You didn't mind?”

“‘Course I didn't mind. All that stuff made me invulnerable. I’ve been made fun of so many times that I honestly don't think I can be embarrassed anymore.” He pauses for a second, blank-eyed at the mirror. “I’ve lost all sense of shame.”

Keith nods affirmatively. “Okay, I _have_ picked up on that.”

“Don’t be fucking _rude_ ,” he says in a poor impersonation of what he can only assume is Kim Kardashian, picking a clear spray bottle and misting his face with it.

“It’s out of nostalgia, then, isn't it?” Keith asks, and Lance’s smile fades a bit. “Especially since you're homesick. Products like those remind you of your family.”

“... Alright, alright, you got me. Calm your tits, Sherlock Holmes, I don’t need you psychoanalyzing my goddamn skincare.” He grabs his toothbrush, searches in the clutter for his toothpaste, gives up quickly and settles for Hunk’s instead. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Your family. I dunno, I’ve never heard about them.” He squeezes on too much toothpaste, turns on the sink again before he brushes his teeth.

“Not much to hear, honestly,” he replies, but Lance just stares at him expectantly. “Well, like. Okay. I was born in Texas.”

Lance chokes on his toothpaste and has to stop for a second, and Keith pretends not to notice. “My dad’s from— my dad was born in Afghanistan, and then he moved to Texas when he was young. I think so, anyways. I’m not sure.” His mind seems to get further and further away from him as he tries to recall more. “I might've… I think I had an older brother. I remember someone when I was a kid. Maybe it was a friend. I don't remember my mom. Then I was… on my own? Yeah, my dad left. It was just me for a while. Then I enlisted in the Garrison.”

“... Thassh’ it?” Lance squints at him, mouth full of toothpaste.

“Look, I’m just as disappointed as you are. If I knew more, I would tell you. Believe me.”

Lance spits, rinses again. He dries his face on the towel. “How about the Galra part? Where does that tie in?”

“It must be my mom’s side. My dad’s human, that’s one thing I’m sure of.”

“Ah. So your dad’s a furry.”

Keith opens his mouth, then closes it, purses his lips. “You know what? I’m not gonna ask.”

“Fair enough.” Lance gives a fond look— he snaps his fingers in a moment of realization. ”Oh, shit, I almost forgot!”

“What?”

He runs in front of and past Keith, checking the door. Then, he tilts forward against the counter. “I wanted to return the favor,” he says, grinning, placing a hand on Keith’s knee. His eyes are half-lidded and very, _very_ blue.

It takes Keith too long to realize what he means, and he’s already leaning in quite a bit by the time his breath sharpens and his face goes hot. “Oh… _oh_ , um…”

“Would that be alright with you?”

Keith’s tongue is suddenly too heavy in his mouth, and then Lance is closer than anything out of nowhere, tucking Keith’s hair behind his ear. Pressing a soft kiss against his jaw. The steam is thicker in the air, all too sudden and new, and Keith can't breathe for a moment. “Okay… okay, yes.”

“I mean, I still got one good hand,” he chuckles, his voice is quiet and low and Keith grips the edge of the counter until he feels like he’s about to shatter the marble. “You took _my_ virginity, so it’s only fair that I should be the one to take _yours_... That’s what I think, anyways.”

“I-I’m not a virgin,” he murmurs, almost as an afterthought, wants to feel his lips again, turns towards him so he’ll kiss him again—

Lance pulls away, and the heat of his breath vanishes. Son of a bitch. “You’re not?”

“... No?”

“How?”

“I… have had sex before?”

“No, no, I know how, you fuckhead— _who_ , though?”

Keith doesn't know why he cares so much, but Lance doesn't seem angry, only curious. “Just this girl who was in our grade. Before I was expelled.”

“Figures,” he snorts, “You always had girls drooling over you. What was her name?”

“Shriya.”

“Shr—” his eyes go wide. “Shriya _Bradford_?”

“Well, yeah, what other Shriya—?”

“Keithten Mary Jenner, do _not_ fuck with me right now.” Lance puts both his hands on Keith’s shoulders and gives him a deadly glare. “ _Quiche_ , are you— are you seriously telling me that you had sex with _Shriya Bradford_?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with that? Did you not like her or something?”

“What the _fuck_ , Keith!” Lance rips away from him, bends back with his hands over his face as if he’s in agony. “I was in love with Shriya Bradford!”

Oh, shit, Lance is _mad_. “You were in love with _every_ girl,” He counters, his instinct to argue with Lance finally getting the best of him. “You were non-fucking-stop. You would proclaim your true feelings to somebody every other day.”

“Well— well, yeah, but Shriya was different! I can’t believe that you f— hold on, when was this? When did this happen?”

“First semester this year. It was the week after Matthew Fiorello broke up with her.”

“Matthew Fiorello is a fucking _douche_ , she deserved so much better,” He spits, “fucking hell, Keith, this is the worst news I’ve ever heard in my life.” He kicks a stall door open. “God _damnit_!"

The bathroom door opens suddenly, and Hunk runs in, noticeably out of breath. “I heard yelling,” he says, “is everybody okay?”

There’s an awkward silence as Lance tries to register the new presence in the room, still scowling, glancing back and forth between Keith and Hunk.

“... Did I walk in on something horrible again?”

“Keith banged Shriya Bradford,” Lance says dryly to Hunk, in a _can-you-believe-this-shit_ sort of tone.

“Whoa, _what_! Shriya from cartography class?” Hunk lets out a laugh. “Dude, Lance was in _love_ with that girl.”

“Lance was in love with every single girl in the fucking _school_!”

The statement makes Hunk laugh even harder, loud and honest, echoing. Lance starts to snicker, too, and then he breaks out laughing, doubles over, leans back against a stall divider. The sight of it alone is enough to get Keith laughing along with them, and just like that, the odd tension disappears. The three of them have a short, light-hearted conversation about old drama from school, and then Lance makes eye contact with Keith while Hunk is talking about that one influenza outbreak where they had to cancel all the classes for a few days. He jerks his head towards the door, signaling him.

“I’m gonna head off to bed,” Keith says, as if scripted. He hops down from the sink. “See you guys in the morning.”

“Me too. See ya.” Lance takes his clothes off of the counter, gives Hunk a pat on the shoulder before he heads towards the door.

“Sweet dreams! Oh— hey, Lance, you haven't still been using my toothpaste, have you? ‘Cause I keep running out super quick.”

“... Look, Hunk, I gotta blast,” Lance says, pointing to the door.

“Lance, I swear to god! Just use your own! You know good and well that I have to brush my teeth, like, five times a day!”

“Sorry, man, I’m blasting,” he calls, grabs Keith by the forearm and unlocks the door quickly, pulling him out into the main hall. Keith keeps laughing as Lance practically drags him through the corridor, still shirtless. He looks like an idiot.

“Where are we going?”

“My room.”

“Why?”

Lance snorts. “‘Cause I owe you, that’s why.”

They stop in Lance’s doorway, and he opens it with a big flourish of his right wrist, tugging Keith in along with him. As soon as the door slides shut, Lance wraps his bare arms around Keith and kisses him.

There’s hardly any time to react— even if there was, Keith can't think of anything he’d rather do than reciprocate, spread his hands wide on his back, his skin is so soft, so _clean_ , traces his fingers over the ridges in his spine again and again. Lance’s hand drifts up into his hair, combs it and twists it as he licks at Keith’s lip, _shit_ , he really wasn't kidding when he said he liked hair. His other hand pulls at the back of Keith’s shirt, and there’s heat and tension and desperation out of fucking _nowhere_.

“I’ve been thinking about kissing you all day,” he holds his forehead to Keith’s, “All day. Kept remembering how you kissed me last night. How come you _kissed_ me last night?”

“C… ‘Cause I wanted to,” He says quietly, unable to think out a proper answer, not when they’re so close like this. “‘Cause I felt like it.”

“Well, i-it made it weird,” he whispers. “It’s weird, now. You made it weird, dickwad.”

“I made it w— so jacking you off is totally fine, but you draw the line at _kissing_?”

“There’s no line anymore. The line’s fuckin’ gone. C’mere.” Lance walks him back to his bed, practically throws Keith onto it, feels adrenaline rush through his body as Lance gets on top of him and presses into another kiss. He slides a hand up his shirt until his palm is flat and firm on his chest, and Keith practically snaps his neck jerking up and grabbing it at the hem, breaking the kiss and pulling it off over his head.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” says Lance under his breath, gets an arm firmly around the back of his neck and kisses his jaw again, kisses his cheek and the shell of his ear over and over until Keith practically melts into a fucking puddle. “Gonna be honest, Keith, I really like just sort of fighting n’ yelling like that,” his breath is hot against his ear and he might just go insane, “‘cause I know we’re such good friends that, that it’ll all just be alright in the end. It’s fun as hell.”

“Are you sure we’re still friends?” Keith barely breathes.

“Well, we’re _best_ friends now, bro,” Lance laughs haughtily, holds his back and presses his thigh in between Keith’s legs.

“ _Lance_ ,” His name is practically pulled from his throat, a hot spark shoots up his body and he clenches his eyes shut for a moment, tries to grab at something on him, anything on him, just ends up scratching at his bare back. “Lance, fuck, Lance.”

“I wanna make a mess outta you,” rasps Lance, “Like I’m getting revenge or something.” He leans down and kisses his neck, softly, hesitantly, starts to grind his weight on his leg and watches Keith tense and hum underneath him, tries to stifle himself, tries to bite down on his lip or clench his teeth or anything. “What, did Shriya Bradford never do you like this?” Lance’s pointy-ass chin digs into his collar and he doesn't even mind.

“Shut up,” he groans, tosses his head to the side. The pillow smells like jasmine and rose, and he feels the urge to suffocate himself in it. His legs tense up, and he clenches them around Lance’s like he’s afraid he’ll pull away.

“Mm, yeah, I’ll shut up,” his voice sounds so bad right now, so fucking filthy, leans in right against Keith’s neck, “Bet you want me to do _other_ stuff with my mouth, huh?”

Keith just wheezes as his face goes absolutely molten, points his fingertips deep into Lance’s back and hopes he doesn’t mind, hopes his heart just gives out, it’s pounding so fast that it almost seems probable.

Lance’s lips meet his again, and Lance moans into it when his nails scrape down, holding him so tight that he can hardly breathe. “ _God_ , haven't made out in so long. Missed this,” like he’s saying it to himself.

“How come you're a virgin?” Keith pants, “how come you, you've made out with so many fuckin’ people, it, how come it never went further than that? Why?”

“‘Cause I’d always chicken out.” Lance laughs, and Keith lurches up to kiss him hard and bites at his lip, his tongue, _anything_ before he pulls back again, licks away a string of spit which _should_ be gross but it’s _not._ “As soon as shit got heavy I always got so goddamn scared, started thinking about how I didn't trust them and I didn't even _know_ them and I didn't feel ready so I’d just make some bullshit excuse and jet.”

“Do you feel like that now?”

“ _No_ ,” he says it like the mere suggestion is ridiculous. Keith notices that the blemish on Lance’s face is significantly less pronounced, and he almost wants to comment on it, but he’s cut off. “Can I blow you?”

“Yes,” Keith swallows roughly, and the thought alone is enough to make his mind swim, “ _Yes_ , yes, y-yes, okay.”

“... Is that a yes?”

“Fuck you,” Keith sighs, and Lance just grins all smug and awful. His brace scratches against Keith's bare back as he pulls it away, drags it down his stomach too slow, starts to work at his belt with his other hand.

Lance seems to be studying him, breath quickening, lips parted. “You don't shave here, either,” he notes, unbuckling his belt, unzipping his fly, pulling at the waistband of his briefs.

“I don’t, why the hell would I sh—” Lance’s lips are suddenly around Keith’s cock and he moans out loud, holy fuck, holy _fuck_ it feels like fucking heaven, feels like hot velvet, so goddamn soft, and the sight makes his mind spit profanities faster than he can even register. “G-gimme some fucking _warning_ next time Lance what the fuck, what the hell, you _dumbass_.”

He backs off, swipes his tongue across the tip and Keith feels like passing out. “Next time?” He pants, “That’s kind of optimistic, isn't it?”

“Stop talking,” he tries to strain his voice lower, he sounds so desperate, needs to keep some semblance of dignity. “Please.”

And much to his surprise, Lance stops talking. Lance just looks at him for a split moment, wraps his hand around him, presses his lips against his head softly. Then he closes his eyes, turns down, takes him further into his mouth.

Keith has to bite down hard as hell on his tongue to keep from immediately getting off, he’s so hard that it hurts, his mouth is so wet, so hot, mother of _fuck_ — all he can focus on is the black roots of Lance’s hair, wonders when the last time was that he’d dyed it brown. Maybe he’ll let him help out again.

“Th-that’s good,” Keith encourages, because it _is_ good, better than his own hand, better than _anything_ , can't even remember what it felt like to be with anyone else, “You’re good at that.” He strokes his hair, finds it pleasantly clean and cool and dry at the ends, still damp at the scalp.

Lance hollows his cheeks, bobs his head up and down, and Keith just tries to guide him slowly, any faster and it’ll all be over. He feels his tongue drag against him each time, and he aches so badly, aches like he hasn't had release in years. “Lance,” he grunts, pushes down on the back of his head, slowly, so slowly—

Lance gags, pulls back off and coughs into his hand. Keith gasps soft, tries to ask if he’s okay, but Lance simply holds up a finger at him. “Gimme a second,” he grumbles, “just gimme a second. Hold on.”

Then, he leans down again, presses his tongue flat against him, licks him up until Keith’s gripping the mattress with white knuckles, stroking Lance’s hair like it’ll do anything at all, heat coiling and building in his stomach, heart fluttering like an idiot in love. “You look so pretty,” he hisses when Lance takes his head in past his lips again, “Always so pretty. Always. Don't even have to try, you always just look so, oh, oh _Lance_ ,” Keith feels his chest swell, feels his thighs tense up in an instant, “Oh Lance oh holy _shit_ _Lance_ I’m c—”

The lights in Lance’s room seem too bright, and everything smells too much like flowers. Keith comes before he can get the words out, grabs Lance’s hair and tries not to pull when his vision goes sharp and white, tries not to make any noise when he feels Lance swallow around him, fails miserably. For a split moment, he’s whole— and then the moment ends, and he’s sweaty and limp and overstimulated in someone else’s bed after finishing way too soon, and he feels so damn strange and embarrassed that he just wants to pass out and never think about any of this again.

“Sorry,” he wheezes immediately, “sorry, sorry, I’m so fucking _sorry_ , I, that was—”

“No, it’s fine, it’s fine,” Lance insists, sniffs and wipes his mouth on his forearm. “I don't mind.”

“I just, I haven't, it’s been a long time—”

“Hey, c’mon,” Lance breathes a laugh, pulls Keith’s briefs back up, “Don’t beat yourself up over anything.” Then he grins at him, shrugs his shoulders. “It’s _my_ fault, if anything. I’m just too good at blowjobs, that's all."

Keith has to laugh a little, appreciates the gesture of defusing the tension, even when he can tell that Lance is still nervous himself. Lance sits up on the bed, leans his side against the wall, fidgets with his hands restlessly. He won't stop staring at Keith, and he can't read his face.

“What?" No answer. "Are you waiting for me to leave? Or—”

“Do you wanna be the boyfriend of me or some shit?”

The question is asked very quickly. It hangs in the air for a long pause, one that consists of Lance twiddling his thumbs expectantly and Keith staring wide-eyed, trying to figure if he’d understood correctly.

“... What?”

“I dunno, I dunno, I dunno why I asked that—” he says it all anxiously, trips over his own words— “Well, I know _why_ I asked that, it’s ‘cause I really like you and I just like _talking_ to you and I trust you a ton and I like making you laugh, and I like when we _kiss_ , and I want it to be a normal thing, I don't want it to be weird, I want it to be regular. I dunno. I’m sorry.”

Keith stares some more, his mind still cloudy. “Are you... Lance, are you asking me out?”

“Look, I know it’s stupid. I’m really sorry I asked. I-if you want, we can pretend I never asked at all, I don't mind.”

“No— no, I.” He scratches the back of his neck, realizing that he’s quite cold. He wishes he had his shirt back on, or maybe that he was close to Lance again. “I want to.”

“Want to what?”

“We should be boyfriends, if you want to,” he says. “Like, I would like that. If we went out.”

And then Lance stares. “Y-you know you don't have to just ‘cause I _asked_ , right?” He sort of panics, “I mean, I can take rejection. You’re talking to _me_ , here, you _know_ I can take rejection, right?”

“I know,” Keith says, finds himself smiling a little. He sits up for a moment, pulls the covers out from underneath him. “Is it okay if I spend the night here?”

“... You’ll get in trouble,” Lance says, but he’s already scooting up to his side, getting under the blanket with him. They’re packed together on the tiny twin mattress, but neither complain— Lance simply presses into the crook of his neck, and his chin stabs into his shoulder, and Keith almost finds it endearing. “You can leave, if you want to. You— you don't have to do this.”

“What kind of a best friend would I be if I left?”

“Quit _fucking_ with me, Keith, Jesus Christ, are we dating or not?”

Keith snickers. “We’re dating. That doesn't mean we’re not still friends, though, right?”

“Right,” Lance says hesitantly, “Right, I guess. Hm. I don't think this is really gonna hit me ‘till morning,” he yawns. “I might kinda freak out in the morning, just wanna warn you.”

“Yeah? Me too.”

“Welp.” Lance kisses his teeth.

And then it’s quiet, and they're warm like that. Once the lights shut out, though, Lance reaches down off the side of the bed, pats around in the dark until something square in his palm lights up, and music starts playing.

“What’s that?”

“I usually listen to music when I sleep? With headphones. But I don't wanna exclude you or anything, so.”

“Oh. Okay.”

The song that’s playing is this awful, romantic slow 80’s shit, and it’s somewhat familiar. Holy fuck, it's from _Top Gun_. It’s that song that plays during the sex scene in _Top Gun_. It makes sense because _Top Gun_ is basically Lance’s favorite movie, he’d told him, it was a tie between _Top Gun_ and _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off_. Keith actually laughs out loud when he recognizes it.

“Hm?” Lance leans back in, and his hair smells like fruity shampoo.

“Nothing,” he replies. It’s so goddamn _Lance_ of him to play something cheesy like that. Keith doesn't even mind.


End file.
